The Fourth
by Hyper4Hetalia
Summary: The Fourth of July. A gun, a bottle of whiskey, and a broken heart.


**Hello, everyone, and thank you for reading!**

**I would just like to say that I (unfortunately, because I would be very rich) do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers, nor any of the characters featured in this fanfiction.**

**Please, please review! I really appreciate your feedback!**

It was raining- the forecast symbolic of its personified country's mood- icy, piercing droplets; the kind one wouldn't expect in the early days of July. Cars were audible in the distance, their mufflers filling the air with an agitated hum and their horns cut into their night like knives. The city lights were too bright to a pair of bleary emerald eyes as the focused a clouded gaze on the water below, watching the reflections of the city they loved.

It wasn't exactly a quiet night, though no sound seemed able to reach Arthur Kirkland's ears. Every year this day had come, two-hundred-and-thirty-five times too many. Every year on this day, the Brit woke up from only a couple hours of restless sleep, his eyes blood-shot and stinging with tears. He would spend the whole day migrating from bar to bar, downing hard liquor until it became difficult to even sit up right.

That day so many years ago... it had come so unexpectedly. Arthur had tried to be the best father he could be to his little blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy. He had taken him in as just a child, raised him to be a gentleman like himself (or had at least tried), provided him with home-cooked meals, had even made him customized toys.

Arthur had watched him grow up into a strong, handsome young man, and gradually affection had turned to a love so strong, he felt like he could barely contain it. Every time those blue eyes met green, he felt as though his chest may explode from the force of his heart's frantic pounding. Even so, after all these years, Arthur had been careful to keep his emotions locked tightly up inside. Alfred had already broken his heart and left him once- letting him know of his feelings now would only ensure that it would happen again.

He drained the tall whiskey bottle of its last drop, then threw it aside with a jerk of his arm, not even flinching when he heard the glass shatter loudly to his left. The gun shook in his right hand and he clenched it tighter in his sweaty fingers, not wanting to drop it in the river below.

Arthur had always wondered if it was possible for a Nation to commit suicide when the country they personified was still in a healthy state. He really doubted it- if it were that easy to kill a Nation, people like Prussia still wouldn't be around. But... it was worth a try. Anything to escape the pain of another year, another Fourth spent alone with the knowledge that somewhere in his country, Alfred was partying at that very moment, rejoicing in the freedom he so treasured.

Why?

What had Arthur done to deserve this?

It hurt... knowing he would never again hold Alfred in his arms.

This kind of pain was more than Arthur wanted to live with.

After living as long as he had, there were things Francis Bonnefoy just picked up on. He may have been 'reading the atmosphere', as Kiku would say, but how it was happening wasn't what concerned the Frenchman at the moment.

Waking up on July 4th with a gut-wrenching feeling had told Francis all he needed to know- get to London, and get their fast. Being the country of _L'Amor_, he had always known of Arthur's strong feelings for the young nation, which was why even he refrained from bothering the Brit on this one day of the year. But he couldn't do that today, his instincts told him that much.

He came to a stop at the center of the London Bridge, bending forward and placing his hands on his knees, panting heavily. "Zere... zere you are!" he exclaimed breathlessly, staring at the back of the man's blonde head. "Angleterre, what are you..."

Francis froze as his eyes focused on the gun clutched tightly in the other nation's hand. "Angleterre," he said after a moment, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "Angleterre, put down that gun." he regarded the broken bottle of whiskey with weary blue eyes. "You're not thinking clearly."

He waited for a response, watching the Brit nervously. At that angle, he could see part of Arthur's face, the sight causing a muscle to tighten in the pit of the Frenchman's stomach. Arthur's lips were quivering slightly, and there were bags under his eyes. Tears were rolling free and fast down shallow cheeks, falling soundlessly onto the pavement at his feet. His brilliant viridian eyes glazed with tears and the filmy substance one produced after drinking too much alcohol.

Arthur never reacted to his words, and Francis seriously doubted he was even sober enough to hear him. He watched in earnest as the other man slowly lifted the gun to the side of his head, a finger struggling to find the trigger. His breath hitched in his throat, and he closed his eyes. "You... YOU BLOODY WANKER!" he suddenly screamed into the night, and Francis was more than sure that the exclamation had not been directed toward him.

Arthur's cry filled the night, and suddenly everything seemed silent. Francis started to run before he was even aware that he had begun to do so. Everything was so quiet, so peaceful... until the load, unmistakable sound of a gunshot rang through the still London air.

"NON! ANGLETERRE!" the cry was torn from Francis' lips as he reached out in an attempt to grasp onto the Englishman's color, but it slipped away just inches from his fingertips. He watched, horror stricken, as Arthur's body fell forward into the water below.

Even a shot to the head wasn't enough to kill a nation... at least not instantly. Arthur plummeted into the icy river, his nerves screaming in protest. He had meant to take a breath, although somehow he had lost it during the decent. Now, as his body tried to draw in air and instead breathed in water, he started to choke, his lungs feeling unnaturally heavy in his chest.

He stared up into the lights reflected through the surface of the water above, watching as it all slowly turned red, his blood leaking into a pool around him as he drifted downwards. He was in so much pain, which really only made him want to die more. His chest... the amount of water he had swallowed was crushing, and the corners of his vision had gradually turned to black.

_I guess this is it._ Arthur thought solemnly, so close to being gone that he didn't notice that body crashing into the water beside him, nor the arms wrapping around his torso, pulling him back toward the surface.

Francis struggled under Arthur's weight, fighting desperately to reach the shore. He gulped for air, concerned when he didn't see the Brit doing the same. No, he couldn't have lost him already!

The Frenchman staggered onto the pebbly shore, setting the other man down and pressing his palms to his chest, attempting to pump water out in timed pushes. He leaned down, pressing his lips to Arthur's and breathing in a gust of air. After all the years Francis had dreamed of this kind of physical contact with the man, he couldn't bring himself to feel even the smallest amount of satisfaction now.

Arthur blinked blearily up at the man, feeling himself start to slip away. All he could see now were faint smudges of color... blue eyes, blonde hair... "Alfred," he whispered, somehow managing to speak when his lungs were filled to the brim with water. He reached up, touching the side of Francis' cheek. He was happy... so happy that Alfred had come to see him on his special day. Maybe the younger nation still cared about him after all. "Happy Birthday, you... bloody wanker."

He could die smiling, as long as his Alfred was with him.

Francis watched in horror as the Englishman's eyes slowly became vacant and distant, the last of his blood spilling out onto the pebbles around him. Francis tore desperately at the front of his shirt, feeling earnestly for a pulse. He sat back and put his head in his hands when he found none. It was pointless now. There was no way to save Arthur.

"Hey, Frenchy!" Alfred F. Jones grinned as he answered his phone, the sounds of a party in full-swing blaring behind him. He took another bite of his Big Mac (he had ordered at least a hundred for the party), chewing happily.

"l'Amérique," a voice came solemnly from the other line. Something about the tone in his voice made Alfred freeze, his stomach twistimg into an anxious knot. He slowly set down the hamburger; suddenly- for the first time in his life -he didn't feel so hungry. He had been expecting a cheerful 'Bon Anniversaire!' when he had picked up the phone; what had happened to make the Frenchman sound this way?

Alfred would never be prepared for the words that came next, not if he had spent his whole life waiting to hear them. "Arthur is dead."

A chill ran up the young nation's spine, his azure eyes slowly stretching wide in horror behind the rim of his glasses. For a moment his heart almost stopped in his chest, then it began hammering wildly, even though it felt as though his blood had run cold. This was impossible! Arthur was a nation! He couldn't die!

His hand tightened around the edge of the table, his fingers clenching until the wood splintered and snapped underneath his fingertips; the noise was so loud that the music and chatter stopped, everyone turning to look at him in obvious confusion. "I'll... be right there." he said, finally finding the strength to speak before hanging up.

Alfred stood and slowly walked out without even a word to his guests. He wanted to believe this was all just a horrible dream, or some sick joke the Frenchman had decided to play on him. But he knew that was only wishful thinking- the tone in Francis' voice had said it all: Arthur was gone.

"Where is he?" Alfred asked, leaning one arm against the doorway. After getting off his plane, he had been too impatient to wait for a taxi and had literally run to Arthur's home in London, through the icy rain. The exercise had done him some good, though- it had helped clear his head and had awoken him from the trans he had been in ever since he had received the news about his previous caretaker.

Francis lifted his head from his hands. He sat in an armchair beside a roaring fireplace, his eyes blood-shot and wide with distress. "I am sorry, l'Amérique." was all he could bring himself to say at the sight of the younger nation. "I did everything I could to save him."

"Where is he?" the American demanded a second time, not having the patience for useless apologizes. Arthur was dead- no amount of words could bring him back. Nothing could ever bring him back.

The other man sighed and stood slowly, motioning to be followed.

There were no words to properly explain how Alfred felt as the two allies made their way up a tall set of stairs and down a corridor. He knew this house well- he had grown up here, after all, yet he could never remember the place feeling so lonely. Signs of life still remained inside the house: the fading scent of burnt scones wafting in from the kitchen, a collection of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's greatest stories laying spread out proudly on a neatly polished coffee table, a sock that had fallen out of the basket on its way to the laundry room, a cup of cold tea that had only been set down for a moment, then forgotten.

The familiarity of these things- which once would have made Alfred smile -felt like a cold blade to his heart. It was a difficult thing for him to wrap his head around, that not twenty-four hours ago Arthur Kirkland had been alive and capable of having been saved. If only Alfred had known he was in danger! He could have done something! He was a _hero!_ He... he would have given his own life in an instant if it meant saving Arthur's!

Francis paused outside of a familiar door, his hand hesitating on the doorknob. "I had some of the servants clean him up and change his clothes," he explained, still trying to be gentle, which... Alfred actually appreciated. "He looks as though he could be sleeping."

All Alfred could do as this point was nod, his blood pounding in his ears as the door slowly swung back. He took a deep breath without even being aware that he had done so, then made his way inside bedroom.

Arthur was laying in the middle of his bed, arms at his sides. It was such a familiar sight- one Alfred had seen countless times when he used to run into his caretaker's room after having a nightmare, or during a bad thunderstorm. And Arthur would always be there to hold him and stroke his hair, or to read him Alice in Wonderland or children's poetry. Moments like those that had once seemed so trivial, though now Alfred would give anything to spend time like that with Alfred again. He couldn't even remember ever thanking him for all the things he had done. He was so newly gone, and already Alfred felt as though it would be unbearable to live without him.

He approached the bed, feeling as though something had lodged itself in his throat as he stared down into the older man's face. Francis had been right- Arthur really looked as though he could have been sleeping, were it not for the pale, waxy state of his skin and the unnatural motionlessness of his chest.

Alfred knelt slowly, his movements careful and cautious as he slid his hand into the other man's. He bit his lip, fighting the instinct to pull away from the iciness of the touch. This wasn't what he had been expecting; where was the warmth he was so used to? Where was the agitated look on Arthur's now serene face as he shouted at him and called him a 'bloody wanker'? Where was the smile he could expect on the rare instances when Alfred felt nice enough to lie and tell him that his scones tasted good, before hastily tossing them into the trashcan whenever Arthur turned his back and trying not to gag?

He took his free hand and placed it carefully on the Brit's cheek, his fingertips slowly combing through the silky strands of his hair. "Oh Iggy," he managed in a barely audible whisper, blinking rapidly when his eyes began to sting. His fingers brushed against something spongy and hard in some places, and he quickly withdrew his hand from the other man's hair, looking down at a few flecks of dried blood on his fingertips.

Alfred's jaw tightened and his slowly lifted a layer of ash-blonde hair from the side of Arthur's head, his heart jumping when he spotted a perfect circle fracturing the other man's skull. Without looking away from the wound, he spoke in a low, venomous tone. "Who did it?"

Francis was silent for a moment, his cerulean eyes trained on the hardwood floors. "He did." the Frenchman finally announced, his tone grave. "It was suicide."

The American's eyes widened once again in horror. "Suicide..." he repeated, his gaze sweeping across the room, suddenly needing to look anywhere but Arthur's face. That's when he spotted it: a broken picture frame containing an old, grainy black-and-white photo of Arthur dressed in his usual tweed suit, a beaming young Alfred balanced in his lap. The picture must have been broken very recently, because it wasn't like Arthur to leave a mess lying for long. Which could only mean...

"Oh God," Alfred pressed his face into his palms, his elbows propped up on the side of the bed. "It was... because of me." he whispered, tears slipping between the cracks of his fingers. "Arthur's gone... because of me."

It had to be his fault. After all, on this day two-hundred-and-thirty-five years ago, Alfred had left him alone in the rain, his sobs fading into the distance as he abandoned him for his freedom. It wasn't that Alfred had been ungrateful to Arthur- after all, the man had given him so many things, had raised him like his own son -but it had been time for Alfred to grow up. It had been his turn to get big, so that he could protect _Arthur_ for a change.

"You... you idiot." the young nation lowered his hands away from his tear-streaked face, his lips quivering at the corners. "You... YOU IDIOT!" he didn't care that Francis was there, or that he was yelling at a corpse whom would never give him a reply. All he could do was scream; he needed to release the painful emotions welling up inside him. "Why did you do this to yourself! Why didn't you just tell me if you missed me! I would have given it all up! I would have thrown it all away if it would have prevented you from doing this!" he grabbed Arthur's icy cheeks, shaking his head as though to rouse him from his eternal sleep. "_Don't you realize that I've missed you too!_" his shriek cut off into a devastated sob and he pulled Arthur's lifeless body close, crushing his mouth down on still, lifeless lips.

Francis' eyes were dilated with pain and pity. He took a hesitant step forward, placing a hand gingerly on the younger nation's shoulder. "l'Amérique," he said quietly. "Stop. This is... not healthy."

Alfred released Arthur, his body collapsing limply into the mattress. The young country whirled around and gave the Frenchman a hard enough shove to send him stumbling back, almost into the wall. "Just go!" he snapped, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I don't care what's healthy! _I need him!_"

Francis watched him for a moment, his eyes filled with a pity and compassion that made Alfred feel sick to his stomach. After a moment he sighed and left his room, pulling his phone from his pocket. He needed to call Arthur's boss and let him know the terrible news.

Seeing that he was left alone, Alfred crawled onto the bed beside Arthur like he used to, rolling his body over onto his side, so that they could face one another. He wrapped his arms around his waist, burying his face into the other man's chest. "Come back," he begged, his breath hitching in frantic sobs. The scent of his cologne was faint in his nose, as though it had been washed away by something. There was another smell... alcohol, it seemed, mixed with what Alfred guessed was the beginnings of decay. "Please...! Please, Arthur, come back! _I love you._"


End file.
